


A Weekend at Home

by CreativeWords



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, I love exploring the Holmes family, Kidlock, Sherlock's first case, Some teenage angst, some me playing with characters that don't belong to me, some mystery, that one, uni Mycroft, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeWords/pseuds/CreativeWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a short, simple voicemail. Would you consider coming home for the weekend? Love you, Mum.</p><p>Sherlock had done something. Obviously.</p><p>When Mycroft comes home from uni for the weekend to calm things between brother and father, he finds Sherlock has taken up a new hobby. But then, life at the Holmes house is never simple, is it?<br/>Posted in small scenes as I have time to finish them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday Afternoon

Newton's First Law: an object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an external force.

* * *

It had been a short, simple voicemail.  _Would you consider coming home for the weekend? Love you, Mum._

Sherlock had done something. Obviously.

The fact that Mummy hadn't even said his brother's name meant it was enough to make mentioning it around Father dicey. Probably suspended yet again, and for God only knew what. The fact that Sherlock hadn't been waiting with Father and Mummy to welcome Mycroft when he dashed in the front door chased by an early November deluge meant they were at the worst of Sherlock's stubborn backlash. He hugged his mother, shook hands with his father, made it a point to smile and meet both sets of eyes with bland reassurance. Father was tense, avoidant, all angles and clenched muscles. Mummy was wilting, a puddle of vaguely trembling limbs and worried eyes. Mycroft swept her with a second glance. Fragile smile, but none of the warning signs he knew.

Ah yes, home.

He hadn't missed it.

 

After depositing his case in his room, he came back downstairs to find Father's study door closed and a strident phone conversation leaking through it. Standard procedure, then. Mycroft turned left and headed to the library, where he could expect Mummy to be. She was sitting in the wingback chair closest to the door, sipping a cup of tea.

He smiled and drew a breath to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and cut her eyes to the third bookshelf to the right of the door. He nodded his understanding. Sherlock had retreated to the room behind the hidden panel and would be able to hear their conversation.

"Is term going well?" Mummy asked.

Mycroft poured himself the remaining cup of tea, spooned more sugar than he ought into it, and did not pitch his voice lower to match hers. "Fairly."

"Good professors?"

"Fenwick is a bore, but it's difficult to make microeconomics interesting at half past seven."

"No trouble."

It was meant to be a question, but she phrased it as a statement. Mycroft never had trouble, never caused trouble, never did anything but solve trouble.

He smiled as blandly as before. "Never."

They sipped their tea and watched the rain lash the window till the silence cracked with the waiting.

"What happened this time?"

She cut her eyes to the panel again, but Mycroft waited. He wasn't above smoking his brother out of his den.

"Well, he was taken to the headmaster's office because of some business to do with the mice in the laboratory."

Mycroft repressed a groan, but allowed himself to close his eyes to absorb this. "Extracurricular experiments?"

"Apparently," Mummy said. "Two dead, one in the throes when the class arrived."

"And they're sure it was –" Mycroft cut himself off and changed the question. "What poison did he use?"

Mummy shrugged. "They didn't tell me and I didn't want to know. That was only the first part of the story."

Mycroft squared his shoulders and nodded for her to continue. He thought he detected some noise from the other side of the panel, but he couldn't be sure.

"Well, while he was in the headmaster's office, he apparently… made some observations about the headmaster and his secretary that were…"

"Indelicate?" Mycroft supplied.

"Precisely."

A definite thump from the other room. Sherlock disapproved of the way the story was told, then. Mycroft had no sympathy.

"How long is he suspended?"

"A week, but they want to meet with your father and me before he comes back. It's the third time he's been suspended, and this is only his second year."

"Does Father know about the meeting?" Mycroft asked.

"He was the one who took the call."

Another wince. "And Sherlock is… alright?"

Mummy nodded. "He hasn't, you know. Not in a year."

Reassuring, but only barely. His father had a notoriously short memory when it came to keeping promises. Particularly when provoked.

The panel opened emphatically, though only just far enough to reveal Sherlock, wearing a t-shirt, flannel pjyama trousers, and a black robe that all looked rumpled enough to have been slept in several days running, and looking cross. He slid out of the secret room and closed the panel behind him.

"Sherlock, your brother came to visit for the weekend," Mummy said unnecessarily, beckoning him closer.

Sherlock, all gangly limbs and unruly hair, stayed where he was. Mycroft met his gaze, returning his cool assessment. They had not parted well when last they saw each other, something of a pattern since Mycroft first left for uni, and it seemed Sherlock was as capable of holding a grudge as he was of murdering rodents.

The rumples in Sherlock's clothing bore traces of splashes of something, and his fingers where he was fidgeting with the dangling belt of his robe were reddened. Mycroft could have deduced he was experimenting with something without the physical evidence, but on what remained more of a mystery. Some irritant, to be sure. He shifted his chin toward the secret panel, raising his eyebrows a fraction. Sherlock's nostrils flared in defiance. Mycroft cooled his eyes, letting the lids settle slightly. Sherlock quite frankly didn't care enough of what others thought of him to be secretive, so the use of the room was a surprise. It had been Mycroft's preferred haunt when he lived at home because Mummy would have considered it an imposition of privacy to venture within, and Father never went in search of anyone. They came to him. For Sherlock to be silently forbidding Mycroft to enter was… uncharacteristic.

"Well, I should see if dinner is almost ready," Mummy said, if possible deflating even further. "Your father will be hungry."

She put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder as she passed, but her eyes stayed on Sherlock.


	2. Friday Evening

“Have you heard from Garamond since term began?” Father asked from the head of the table.

Mycroft waited until he’d passed the bowl of potatoes to Mummy before answering. “He sent a letter last week informing me that they would be happy for me to return to the position over winter holidays if I wished to make a little money.”

“Take it,” Father barked immediately. “Positions like that don’t come easily, my boy. Don’t let that laziness of yours keep you from making something of yourself.”

Mycroft considered pointing out the extensive application process he’d undergone to land the Treasury internship in the first place, or the fact that he had spent his entire summer holidays working 6 or 7 days a week, or the fact that he must have done something to impress them or he never would have gotten the invitation to return. But he gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The sigh that Sherlock huffed from across the table might have been covered had there been any other noise at the table that moment. There was an instantaneous twitch of reaction around the table as Mummy looked to Sherlock and Mycroft turned to Father, who was setting his silverware on his plate with an emphatic _clink_.

“Do you have something to say?”

Sherlock straightened his shoulders, but Mummy spoke.

“Now, Siger, he’s just restless. With this rain, he’s been cooped up –“

“Cooped up inside with nothing to do. Well, he’d have something to do if he were at school, wouldn’t he?” He turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Well? Do you have something to say about the fact your brother has a chance to land a worthwhile job when he graduates, instead of throwing away his opportunities?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his father.

“His opportunities or yours?”

Mycroft considered kicking his brother under the table. Mummy closed her eyes and leaned back, bracing herself. Apparently the last six months had done nothing for Sherlock’s self-control.

“My opportunities?” Father repeated.

“Good long-term investment, I suppose, having your dutiful son there. Cheaper in the long run. For your firm, I mean.”

Mycroft hadn’t realized that Sherlock was aware of any of their father’s business dealings, but it was clear he’d picked up quite a lot he oughtn’t. Par for the course for his younger brother.

Father had half-risen from his seat. “I will not be spoken to in that manner!”

Mycroft had been slowly sawing his way through his lamb chop, but he mirrored his father’s action almost instinctively.

“Let’s not fight this evening,” he said, employing the smooth tone he’d been honing for what felt like his entire life. “Come now, I haven’t been home since April, and I just want to have a nice family meal.”

He’d always known he had the gift of persuasion. Getting other children to do his bidding had come like breathing, and when Sherlock was an infant, he’d responded to Mycroft’s slow, measured tones better than to either of their parents. As he grew older, he learned to incorporate body language, refined his skill to the point he could change the flow of conversation with a simple shift of weight. Father was something of an exception – it was never a guarantee that Mycroft’s silver tongue would work on him. The times it did not were memories Mycroft tried to bury.

Tonight, however, Siger Holmes seemed to be in an amenable mood. He nodded and resumed his seat, though he and Sherlock exchanged glares that promised a battle. Mycroft placed the bite of lamb chop in his mouth and chewed. It was a moment before the others followed suit. Mycroft didn’t make eye contact with any of them, but resolutely buttered his bread and raised it to his lips. A trick learned long ago, making them uncomfortable with the idea of not returning to the polite rules of the dinner table. Sherlock picked at his bread, cocking an eyebrow at his brother in what looked like a challenge.  Mycroft turned to Mummy.

“I’ve been so busy with school this last week I’ve barely had time for the papers. What has been happening in the world?”

“Well, Mr. Delaney had a break in at his nursery earlier this week. Not much taken, but the thief knew what he was about – took some of the most expensive equipment in the greenhouse.”

“A gardening enthusiast gone wrong,” Father said around a bite of lamb.

“No, it was Delaney’s son,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft tightened his lips but didn’t look at Sherlock. His brother’s smirk was wide enough to be seen from the corner of his eye as Father rounded on Sherlock again.

“And I suppose you know that as well as you know that that boy didn’t die by accident.”

“Carl Powers, and yes. I know because it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Mycroft frowned and glanced at his mother. She’d steepled her fingers and brought them to her mouth in a prayer position, eyes flitting between husband and son. Whatever this was, it was information he didn’t have and that was a problem.

“The police will decide what makes sense, not a 13 year-old who can’t even stay in school.”

“They’re wrong.”

“That’s not for you to say.”

“Why not? They’ve missed something – something obvious.”

“Very well, then, what? What is this mystical obvious thing that only you seem to know?”

Sherlock’s face crumpled into a frustrated spider web of wrinkles. “I don’t know.”

Father leaned back, looking self-satisfied, but Sherlock wasn’t done. His eyes were alight, and his words tripped over each other as he continued.

“But I could find out. His shoes. Why were they missing? That proves something was wrong. That’s what I was –“

“Enough!” Father barked, sharply enough to make all three of his family members jump. “I’ve told you before, Sherlock, I will not tolerate this obsession of yours. Now eat your dinner. Silently.”

Mycroft sat quite still in his chair, cursing the childhood instinct that kept him from speaking. Appeasement, while efficacious a statistically insignificant portion of the time, had the advantage of allowing for a shift in strategy. And letting his father think he’d won was a basic tenet of life in the Holmes house, though he’d never been able to convince Sherlock of it.

In fact, as Mycroft speared a piece of potato and planned how to get more information on this Carl Powers, he could see Sherlock building steam across the table. The 13-year-old was pinching his bread into flat bits, grey with whatever he hadn’t washed off his hands before coming to the table. His eyes were straight ahead, but his jaw muscles were working more and more insistently. If past experience was to be believed, Mycroft had approximately six seconds to intervene before things got completely out of hand. He rifled through the safe topics at his disposal.

“I saw Quin-“

“Do you realize you’re letting someone off with murdering a child?”

There was a moment of utter stillness at the table. Sherlock, jaw jutted in defiance, stared at each of them in turn, daring a response. Mycroft saw his father’s fist clench.

“Siger,” Mummy said faintly, the entreaty half-reproof.

But Siger looked to Mycroft, who had straightened his shoulders and leaned forward ever so slightly. This was the line they’d drawn, the line he’d only crossed once since Mycroft left for uni. And as things stood, his father could ill-afford to renege on the deal. The secrets his eldest son held now were more damaging than the ones he’d used as the original bargaining chip, and they both knew it.

“Sherlock, go to your room.”

“He’s barely touched his dinner,” Mummy protested.

“Well, he should have thought of that before he disobeyed.” Siger said coldly.

Sherlock remained sitting, entire body quivering with the effort of keeping silent. Mycroft tried to catch his eye, but his brother was steadfastly ignoring him. There was a moment when it looked like Sherlock might start off again. Mycroft was already preparing for the worst. But then Mummy reached over and covered Sherlock’s clenched fist with her hand. Father’s mouth tightened perceptibly, but Sherlock jolted to his feet, swept them all with a scalding look, and walked out of the room.

“You baby him, Violet,” Father said, attacking a potato on his plate with unnecessary force.

“He’s still just a boy.”

“Hardly. It’s high time he learned to keep a civil tongue in his mouth.” He waved his fork at Mycroft. “This one had that figured out about a decade sooner.”

Mycroft gave a tight smile, but said nothing.


	3. Friday Night

 The rain had abated at some point during the evening. More was promised, but for now the night air lay heavy and damp around him, even with the window cracked open. The chill of late fall was not quite enough to offset the sheer weight of it. Mycroft adjusted his pillow once more and let his head flop back against it with more force than was necessary. Maybe it was simply this house that made the air clog in his lungs.

Overly dramatic, perhaps. Sherlock would no doubt approve.

At the thought of his brother, Mycroft threw the covers off and swung his legs out of bed, reaching for his robe. His little brother had always had a penchant for trouble, but he’d always assumed that the passage of time would loosen whatever coil it was within that made him so ready to jump into the thick of a problem. It was becoming clearer by the day that Sherlock simply wasn’t cut out to take the easy way through life. This Carl Powers business…

He padded to the door and made his way down the ancient hallway silently. He’d memorized the creaky spots when he was no older than four. The tension in the house had coalesced in a lump in his belly that hopefully a cup of tea would sooth. The hours following dinner had been spent exchanging infrequent comments with his parents while his mother sighed silently and his father brooded. Inefficient way to spend an evening, and one calculated to give him an ulcer before he reached 25.

It didn’t surprise him to find Sherlock in the kitchen when he arrived. The array of chemicals spread out on the island and the cleaning gloves on his brother’s hands did give him pause, though. Common household cleaners, ammonia, and several he couldn’t immediately identify. The smell scorched his nostrils.

“Mr. Nauttars cheated on his wife again, I see.”

Sherlock, who was carefully pouring one of the stronger-smelling bottles into a mixing bowl, didn’t look up. “Not this time. Dogfighting.”

Mycroft nodded and went to the cabinet to find the tea. Their local druggist had been known to supply Sherlock with chemicals whenever the boy discovered his indiscretions.

“Have you given a thought to ventilation?”

“Window.”

Mycroft glanced at the window above the sink. It was slightly open, but not enough to combat the fumes. He reached over and pushed it several inches higher before reaching for the kettle.

“Wind makes it too cold.”

“Then put your robe on. I don’t plan on asphyxiating myself tonight.”

“Sleeves get in the way.”

“Roll them up.”

“They don’t stay.”

Mycroft gave a delicate harrumph. “That does seem to be a dilemma.”

Sherlock looked up with eyes too shrewd for his years and raised an eyebrow. “You could just leave.”

“You could just go to bed. You may notice I didn’t suggest that as an option earlier, as I assumed it would be futile.” Mycroft let enough water run for two cups and placed the kettle back on the stove. “What is all this, anyhow?”

Again that distrustful look, as if he expected Mycroft to report him to the authorities the moment his back was turn. “Experiments.”

Mycroft leaned back against the counter, observing his brother. “Something to do with the Powers boy?”

He could read the buried excitement in the bunched lines of Sherlock’s skinny frame. The faintest of starts at the mention of the name. Mycroft had only been able to discover cursory information about him since dinner – a boy from Bristol who went up to London for a swimming competition and drowned. Regrettable, to be sure, but not holding any particular fascination.

“I had an idea that maybe it was just a high concentration of chlorine in the water. But too messy, not controlled enough. It would have to be something else. Something not everyone would react to. Or some sort of slow-acting poison that just didn’t take effect till he was in the water. Surer that way.”

“Please tell me there aren’t actual poisons on the surface where our food is cooked.”

Sherlock raised a gloved hand. “I’m being careful. And I’ll scrub everything down when I’m done.”

“Well, that _is_ reassuring,” Mycroft said, frowning. “What makes you think the boy was murdered?”

“A champion swimmer drowning?”

“Not unheard of.”

“A boy my age, in an indoor pool, just beginning a workout he did daily? Something happened to him.”

“Could have been a muscle spasm. Some sort of genetic condition. A heart attack. A stroke. An aneurysm.”

“Murder. Statistically more likely than any of those options. Also, no evidence of any of them.” Sherlock stirred the mixture in the bowl with his left fingers and squinted at it before turning the same questioning gaze onto his brother. “Why are you so anxious to assume it was a natural occurrence?”

“If the authorities haven’t found anything –“

Sherlock’s disgusted look cut him off as effectively as words. Several beats of silence passed as they observed one another, taking stock. Sherlock’s face was taking on the planes of manhood, almost as unsettling a realization as the fact that his expression was as stiff and blank as it would be if he were facing a stranger. Sherlock tilted his chin a bit, settling into a defiant stance. It was an odd sensation, feeling the need to explain himself, particularly to his younger brother.

“All I’m saying is that you don’t have access to all the information.”

“I don’t need to have access to all the information to know they’re wrong.”

“Perhaps so, but if you can’t back your knowledge up with evidence, it’s still useless.”

“What do you think I’m doing in here? Cooking dinner?”

The kettle boiled. Mycroft turned around and took it off the eye.

“Speaking of which, you should have something. You barely touched dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

Mycroft got down two teabags and mugs and proceeded to pour. Behind him, Sherlock was emptying another foul-smelling liquid into a different bowl. Mirroring, Mycroft thought.

“What do you expect to prove by this? You don’t even have the equipment to do any proper experiments.”

“That’s what I was trying to do at school, but then I got suspended. I’ve had to make do around here.”

Mycroft put the kettle down unnecessarily hard and spun around to grab Sherlock’s right arm. He took the edge of the high glove and stripped it off his brother’s hand, ignoring the protests. The fingertips were still reddened as they had been in the afternoon.

“You’ve been experimenting on yourself.” He spoke the words calmly, taking care to enunciate each with a cool detachment. It took a certain level of concentration to do so, even as his eyes scanned the unlabeled bottles littering the island.

“Only with the low toxicity ones. Just to see if they leave any kind of mark on the skin. They do, you know, so I was able to eliminate –“

“No.”

Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. He didn’t have all that far left to look up, Mycroft realized somewhere in the depths of his brain. He held the glove back out to Sherlock and continued in his cool, calm voice.

“Pour those out. Now.”

“But I’ve only got –“

“ _Sherlock_.”

When necessary, Mycroft could do a perfect impression of Father, from the pitch of the voice to the slightest growl that signified danger. Both of them knew that voice. Sherlock’s eyes had flashed fear before settling into a daredevil gleam.

“You can’t make me. You’re not him.”

Mycroft reached over and placed one of the mugs on the corner of the island, leaning closer to Sherlock’s face. “I don’t have to be. Now pour those down the drain, wash your hands, and drink your tea.”

It was strangely relieving to know that the terror still pulsating in his abdomen translated into something that could strike terror into someone else. Sherlock pulled the glove back on and grabbed the first bowl, still glaring at him. Mycroft proceeded to prepare his own cup of tea and Sherlock’s, mostly to have something to do so Sherlock wouldn’t see the fact that his fingers were shaking.

The task was completed in relatively short time. The tea was only slightly cooled by the time Sherlock had sprayed the sanitizing kitchen cleaner, left it to soak, and come to collect his mug.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, his voice firmer now.

Sherlock merely sipped the tea and stared straight ahead. Mycroft felt the weight in his stomach double. There had been a time, back before he’d left for uni, that he was his brother’s only confidante. But that had been before Mycroft sided with Father about boarding school, before Sherlock had come to him about the affairs and been told to keep his mouth shut, and before Sherlock had decided that plowing through every restriction placed on him at school was a viable plan for the future. So many resentments that had piled up between them.

He put his mug down and turned so his body was open to his brother. “Tell me why you think it was murder.”

“Why? You don’t think it was.”

“Convince me.”

“Tell me why you’re taking that stupid Treasury job.”

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock pressed his advantage, keeping his eyes on the counter.

“You’ve never been interested in the Treasury. You’re a born politician. Why aren’t you heading toward Parliament?”

“I don’t like being forced to ingratiate myself to others.”

“Liar.”

He had a point, even felt sure enough in it to smirk. Mycroft realized he was shifting his weight and forced himself to stop. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

“Very well, then. Convenience.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “What, the Treasury is closer to a Tube stop? Better coffee than the Parliamentary interns get?”

“No,” Mycroft said calmly. “I will go farther and much faster at the Treasury. There are dozens of bright-eyed young politicians leaving university every year. Most of them end up stuck in jobs where they accomplish about as much as the person who brings round the sandwich cart, and they work themselves to death at them. But at the Treasury, I can be noticed. The job is not demanding, the pay is adequate, and the right sorts of people have already taken notice of what I can do.”

“And Father wants you there.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Yes, Father wants me there. But what he doesn’t know is that I have no intention of staying there. So by telling him I’m doing what he wants, I both pacify him and get what _I_ want. It’s nothing to do with bending to Father’s will. It’s about learning to work around it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Seems like a lot of unnecessary work.”

“Yes, well, you would think so,” Mycroft said, almost surprised at the smile tugging at his lips. He sipped his tea to cover it. “Working around things isn’t really your style.”

Another smirk, followed by what might be called a chuckle. Laughter was rare in their house; any instance of it in Sherlock was a gift. Mycroft drained the last of his cup.

“Very well, then. Pass me a sponge, and I’ll help you clean off these counters while you tell me about Carl Powers.”

Sherlock headed for the sink and tossed a sponge at his brother, who caught it though it was flung far to the left. Sherlock attacked the closest surface, then looked up at Mycroft, eyes alight.

“It’s the shoes. That’s the key.”


	4. Saturday Morning

Newton's Second Law: the net force on an object is equal to the rate of change of momentum

* * *

It had been well after 1 a.m. by the time Sherlock's theories had subsided to trailing sentences and bleary eyes, and Mycroft was certain he'd heard the clock strike an unseemly number of chimes when he managed to convince his brother to return to his room. Still, as a sullen dawn insinuated itself through the clouds, he dragged himself out of bed. Another weekend tradition had yet to be fulfilled.

His father was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing what appeared to be a second cup of coffee. Mycroft poured himself a cup and settled into the chair opposite, reaching for the first section of the paper that now lay discarded on the table. Siger was about halfway through the financial pages.

"Mycroft."

"Sir."

They made brief eye contact, before raising their respective papers. It always set Siger at his ease, seeing how much his oldest son emulated him. Mycroft had not been aware of the point at which the mirroring became instinctive rather than intentional, but the fact of it was undeniable. They held their papers at the same angle, raised their coffee cups at the same intervals, skimmed the pages with the same nearly-bored expressions. Add to that the fact that Mycroft had, without a doubt, inherited the Holmes nose, and the resemblance was positively uncanny. He tried not to let that thought stay too long in his mind.

The break-in at Delaney's nursery was still top news in the local paper. Mycroft glanced down the column of text, eyes attracted to the pertinent bits of information. Sherlock was right, Delaney's son was the only logical suspect. The intruder had clearly gotten in without violence and gone too far to make it look like a break-in. The damage to the store was overkill, betraying a personal vendetta aided by great familiarity with the property. Why else would the spigot for the irrigation system have been smashed? It was reasonably close to the door, but hardly a target when one was attempting to enter the building. Mycroft toyed with the idea of bringing it up to Father.  _Oh, and by the way, I agree with Sherlock. It was Delaney's son._  The image almost made him laugh.

"Something funny?"

"Hm? Oh, just a typographical error." He'd actually spotted two thus far, so he'd have cover if Father pressed the point.

"Bloody incompetent editors."

Mycroft made a small noise of agreement and turned the page. The local news gave way to briefs of international news, which he skimmed. Nothing of importance.

His father twitched the paper to straighten it, then folded it beside his coffee cup and made a harrumphing sound. "Term going well?"

"Yes, sir." Mycroft did not lower his paper just yet.

"I don't suppose you've got much time for a bit of a side project."

He stifled a sigh. He had presumed as much. "It is possible I could find the time," he said, letting the paper tip forward to see his father's face.

The man had the grace to look slightly sheepish, as much as it was possible for Siger Holmes to look, but it quickly vanished.

"I've made a new acquaintance, you see, and I'm in need of some new –"

Mycroft found he did not have the patience for the usual dance. "I'll contact Fleming about getting a new credit account for you on Monday. When I have it, I'll send the information to your office. The usual code. Have you given her a name?"

"Davies."

"First name?"

"Siger."

"Unfortunate. It's not a common name. If she does much digging –"

"She won't," Siger said, raising his coffee cup to his lips. A slight smile stretched them to match the curve of the rim. "Not this one."

The rebellious part of his mind that still recognized things like morals and vows wanted to ask his father if it wasn't just a bit selfish to chase so many women of varying degrees of beauty and intelligence when he had a wife with an abundance of both. But Mycroft had learnt when he was only 6 that Father was happier when he had an intrigue or two to balance. And if Siger was happy, then life at home moved at an even keel, which was simply best for all involved. Sherlock had been a toddler the first time Mycroft helped his father cover his tracks. By now it was as much a tradition as Christmas eve pudding.

"Also, I need you to find a new hotel. Your brother ruined any chance of me going back to the last one."

Ah yes, the debacle last year that drove the most decisive wedge between the brothers. The first time Sherlock found conclusive proof of his father's infidelity and decided to tell Mummy. When he discovered Mycroft had been helping carry out the deception… well, Sherlock had never been one to tolerate illusions, no matter how well intentioned.

"What part of the city?" he asked, fingering the handle of his cup.

"Give me options. I'm not sure yet where she'll be coming from most of the time."

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to-"

Mycroft broke off as he felt the shift in his father's mood. He looked up to see Siger's lips tighten into a dangerous line. His eyes were hardening. The trigger point was easier to reach these days, apparently. Sherlock's homebound status, no doubt. He inclined his head slightly in acquiescence.

"I'll check into it and let you know."

Siger leaned back and took another sip of coffee. "Good."

Mycroft mirrored him. Habit, but one that held him in good stead. The sharp line of his father's shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. He wondered, idly, if his father was aware of how easily he was manipulated, and how he would react if he ever found out.

"I know your mother invited you so you could try and work on your brother. Any success?"

There was camaraderie in his voice. Mycroft forced the recoil to remain internal and pushed down several of the more candid commentaries on his role as a parent in the situation.

"Oh, Sherlock doesn't take well to being 'worked on.' It's more a matter of letting him be heard that sets him straight, I think."

It was as blunt as he'd ever been with Siger, a fact that made him momentarily regretful. But a glance across the table made him realize it was not blunt enough. Siger was scoffing as if Mycroft had just suggested buying Sherlock a pony. And Mycroft hardly took his own advice when it came to his brother, so he couldn't expect his father to suddenly reform.

"I wonder sometimes," Siger said into his cup.

"Oh?"

"About his mind."

Mycroft's shoulders pulled back into a battle stance. "Oh?"

"There's something not quite right about him. You see it, too. You have to. He's all mind, that one. No emotion. No need for any sort of human relationship. I think I could shut him in his room with a chemistry set and he'd be content for a year."

"He's intelligent. I was, too, if you recall."

"Yes, but you were normal."

 _You were like me._  The words hung unsaid between them. Mycroft ordered his lips into a smile of acknowledgement.

Siger drained his cup and shook his head. "Some days I think I ought to have him tested again. He's practically a danger to society, and only just hitting his teen years."

"He's never in trouble when his brain is occupied. Perhaps a more challenging school?"

"He's not coddled where he is. He stays. Unless they expel him after this last incident, that is. But they make him toe the line. It's good for him. Discipline. He stays there or he comes home and can make do at the local school."

Mycroft considered the ramifications of putting Sherlock back in the house with his father full-time, adding in the element of Sherlock being forced back into state school. This round went to Siger, no question. Even if Mycroft had to bribe Sherlock into behaving.

He realized a beat too late that his father expected a response. He raised his coffee cup in an attempt to cover for it.

"Well, I'm sure he'll rise to the challenge."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident regarding Sherlock's interference is explored in chapter 4 of my story "As We Are, As We Were."


	5. Saturday Morning continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has been so long coming! I've been busy with writing (the kind I get paid to do), as well as several other projects, and I've barely been online beyond a quick email check, or for research. This has been sitting in my "edited" folder for over a week.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Mycroft had brought several textbooks with him in case he needed an excuse to escape the family. As it happened, by midmorning, he was more than ready to avail himself of the escape route. Mummy had come down to say Sherlock was sleeping heavily enough to snore and beg Mycroft's secret.

"He's barely slept a wink since he's been home," she exclaimed, gazing at Mycroft with the kind of glowing pride usually reserved for his younger brother.

"Everyone hits their breaking point eventually, even 13-year-olds," Mycroft replied, shrugging into the dregs of his coffee.

Siger smiled tightly at his wife and stood to give her a requisite morning kiss before settling back into his chair and raising his already-read paper. "He would have been better off left alone. That is the point of being sent to one's room."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I thought perhaps a bit of advice from his big brother might help matters."

The fact that both parents nodded shouldn't have surprised him, but there was a tinge of hot frustration nonetheless. He and Sherlock had the misfortune – or perhaps the fortune, he'd never quite decided which – of having parents who had no idea how to deal with children of their ilk. Father, at least, had been quick to recognize opportunity in the form of Mycroft's skills at deception and misdirection. He'd never had much patience for Sherlock's less practical form of brilliance. Mummy, Mycroft thought, might have been better off with a pair of kittens rather than children.

"I was thinking, Siger," Violet began, seating herself with an air of facing a disagreeable task. "About the meeting next week –"

"I've already said you can come along," Siger snapped.

"Yes, but I wanted to talk to you about what the headmaster –"

"Not this again."

"He's wrong. You know he's wrong."

"Do I?"

Violet recoiled as if slapped. "You don't actually mean you're thinking of putting him –"

"I'm thinking very strongly about having him tested. Once we know the results of that, we can discuss our options."

Siger fixed both his wife and son with a glare that clearly forbade further comment on the subject. Mycroft swallowed the objection in his throat and carried his cup to the sink. If he were to dissuade his father, it would have to be by redirection.

"Did I tell you I saw Quinton in the library the other day?"

At the mention of his cousin, Mummy perked up immediately.

"Oh? How is he?"

"He's engaged, so my guess is he's short of sleep, money, and good marks. He, however, seems perfectly content with the arrangement."

"Engaged? To whom? Why didn't we receive an announcement? When did it happen?"

He smiled benignly, choosing his details. "I believe her name was Lisa. Umm… Lisa Harrison. You'd have to ask Quinton yourself. Or Aunt Margaret, as I expect she knows the details better than Quin. I gave him our congratulations, naturally."

Siger chimed in, just as Mycroft had anticipated, with a gruff, "That's why he missed the appointment with Garvin, then. Not too keen on a clerk position when he's got a lady to squire around. The fool."

"Perhaps," said Mycroft. "Though he mentioned he'd been talking with Lisa's father about some sort of clerk position in his firm."

It was enough. Siger had the light of battle in his eyes.

"Harrison, you said? Not the daughter of George Harrison?"

"I don't know."

"George Harrison of Harrison and Vaughn?"

"I already said I don't know," Mycroft said, lifting one shoulder in a faint shrug.

Siger was already out of his chair, jaw set. "I have some calls to make."

Mycroft stepped out of his way just late enough that their shoulders brushed against each other. Siger gave him a brief glare but continued on his way. Good. The distraction would keep his father occupied most of the day, long enough for the notion of Sherlock's psychiatric testing to fade from his immediate concerns.

Mummy was smiling at him again, this time rather knowingly. "I'll have to call Margaret and ask for the full story. It's not like you to be uniformed."

"Details of some soppy proposal story aren't likely to be something I waste brainspace on."

"So there's no news of your own on that score?"

He should have foreseen that his chosen feint would elicit this response. His mind scrambled for the best response. He could tell her about one of the three girls and two guys he'd managed to have proposition him at the last party he attended. He'd been experimenting with various postures and their effects, and had managed to successfully entice 12 people to flirt, five to actually make a proposition of further intimacy, and also found it possible to rebuff the beginning advances of three others simply by adjusting his shoulders and extremities. A rousing success, from his perspective, but not quite what Mummy was expecting.

"When there is something to report, you'll hear of it."

"University is the time to meet people, have those exciting relationships, you know," Mummy said, smiling faintly as she focused on the left thumbnail of her interlaced hands. "It's those crazy relationships in uni that get you ready for the serious ones after."

Mycroft returned the smile to the same degree. "And how ready were you?"

She wrapped her fingers around her mug and raised it, eyeing him with something like regret, even as her tone turned cheerful.

"Just don't feel the need to wait till it's serious. A mother likes to know what's going on in her son's life, you know. I'd hate to think you were keeping secrets."

He gave the requisite chuckle, and she reciprocated. Routines established in his boyhood. Ah, the games the Holmes play.

Mycroft had lost track of how long he'd been in the armchair with his economics book when he was jolted from his papers by the shrill ring of the phone. He glanced at the window. The light had shifted enough that it had to be near onto noon. He'd just lifted the book again when the ring came again. Apparently Father was on the other line.

He shuffled his books to the floor and bounded to scoop up the receiver by the third ring.

"Holmes residence."

"This is Sergeant Garvey down at the station. Could I speak to Mr. Holmes, please?"

Mycroft stilled. The voice was too relaxed to signify any true danger, but it was the resigned note in it that registered for him. Sherlock.

"He's occupied, but this is Mycroft, his older son."

"Well, Mycroft, I'd be obliged if you could come take your little brother off my hands."


	6. Saturday Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I didn't realize how crazy my fall was going to be...

When Mycroft walked in the front door of the police station, the sergeant on duty was wearing an expression similar to that of a man facing down a blizzard with only the knowledge that it would eventually _have to_ end. No need to ask why. Sherlock was lying on the floor with his feet up on the edge of the desk, one trainer unceremoniously thrust under the man’s nose, holding forth on the subject of wear patterns.

“ … so it’d be likely that the treads could have retained some sort of clue, particularly around the toes.”

“That would be a rare piece of luck, wouldn’t it?” Sergeant Garvey replied, straightening the papers in front of him unnecessarily.

Sherlock swung his feet down and sprang to a standing position in one fluid motion. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. The shoes are important – they have to be or they wouldn’t be missing. Did they check the skips around the pool?”

“If not, it’s too late now, isn’t it?” Mycroft said, startling both of them. “Sergeant, I apologize for my brother. It won’t happen again.”

“Not at all,” Garvey said in a tone that belied his words.

Sherlock sent a stack of papers to the floor with a precision that conveyed the intent to make it appear accidental. “Come to fetch me home?”

“Clever boy.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll call Father and have _him_ come collect you.” Mycroft didn’t bother waiting for a response, but turned to Garvey again. “Thank you again for your patience.”

Garvey nodded and leaned over to begin collecting the papers, eyeing the teenager still by his desk warily. “Just you see that he’s looked after. We’ve more important things to do than babysit here, you know.”

“Such as checking the races once more before you call your bookie? You’ve already placed two bets from the back room – surely that’s enough for one day.”

Mycroft closed the gap between them and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder heavily enough to feel the muscles shift. “Sherlock, let’s go.”

Sherlock snapped his head round to glare at Mycroft again. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, letting his brother read the warning he was hiding from the police officer. _Today’s not the day to press your luck_. The smirk he got in reply didn’t bode well. It took several seconds of increased pressure on Sherlock’s shoulder before he begrudgingly moved toward the door. Garvey visibly relaxed. Mycroft shot him a tight smile of thanks and steered his brother outside.

They were several steps away from the car when the sound of Sherlock’s dragging steps was interrupted by his voice. “Did Father send you to play retriever?”

Mycroft stopped, half-jerking Sherlock around as he ran out of the tether of Mycroft’s reach. There was a flicker of surprise across the younger brother’s face before it was buried again beneath the sneer.

“Father doesn’t know you’ve left the house, which is a mercy, and you’re not to say a word when we get back, is that clear? If all goes well, we can get back in without either of them knowing you were gone at all. If not, you’re to say you were outside when I left and decided to tag along.”

“Is it a crime to talk to a policeman?”

“Do you really want to explain to Father that you were spouting off those theories again?”

“He doesn’t scare me.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock bristled, but Mycroft didn’t wait for the diatribe he saw brewing behind his eyes.

“Whether or not you care for your own relationship with our patriarch is none of my concern. I do, however, have the right to put my foot down when it comes to Mummy. You fight with Father, he takes it out on her – or worse, on you, which is harder for her to bear. And this time, brother, you’ve reached the end of his patience.”

“Wasn’t difficult –“

“He’s thinking of having you committed, Sherlock.”

It took his brother two blinks to cover the fright that welled in his eyes. Mycroft took this as a good sign. He, after all, didn’t know about Mycroft’s deal with Father. But the defiance that replaced the fear did nothing to ease Mycroft’s concern.

“No competent psychiatrist would diagnose me with anything remotely dangerous.”

“Says the boy suspended from school for killing mice,” Mycroft said, fishing in his pocket for the cigarettes he’d told himself he wouldn’t smoke over the weekend.

“Intellectual curiosity. If we’re looking for dangerous violent tendencies, shouldn’t Father be getting nervous?”

“Father wouldn’t be the one getting the evaluation,” Mycroft said, taking his first draw.  “He has the happy talent of knowing when to show his tendencies and when they must remain hidden. Something you’d do well to learn.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him. Mycroft set his jaw slightly, refusing to recant the words. He’d had to learn the art of dissembling. It was high time Sherlock realized the world wouldn’t put up with his oddities just because he enjoyed them.

“It’s not so difficult to simply get on in the world, you know. Is your precious pride worth being stuck in a mental institution?”

“You wouldn’t let it happen.”

Closer to the truth, but still not the point. Mycroft attempted a smoke ring and failed miserably. Sherlock smirked. Mycroft saw the unasked question in his eyes and immediately dropped the cigarette and stomped it out.

“Absolutely not.”

“You think I haven’t tried one before now?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer to grin up into Mycroft’s face.

“That’s neither here nor there. If you think I’m going to deliver you back home smelling like smoke on top of everything –“

Mycroft broke off as he felt the fabric of his jacket shift. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled his hand away from the pocket. The lighter fell back into the pocket with comforting weight.

“Not quite as good as you might think, brother.”

“Worth a try.”

Mycroft stepped toward the car, nodding his brother around to the other side. “Remember, when we get home, you’re to say nothing except that you decided to come along with me.”

“And where exactly were we supposedly going? On a little joy ride?”

Mycroft reached into the back seat and dropped an unopened package of HobNobs in Sherlock’s lap. “I fancied a snack. You fancied some time out and about.”

Sherlock gave the package a toss. “Do you just keep these in your car in case you need an excuse to have been somewhere?”

“What do you think?”


	7. Saturday Afternoon continued

Mycroft parked the car in precisely the spot it had been. He had, against his better judgement, taken the long way round to get home, giving Sherlock time to produce the cigarette he had managed to nick before Mycroft realized and giving himself time to bribe his brother into turning it over. There was little danger in letting Sherlock look at some of the equipment in the chem labs at school. He was certain he could keep a 13 year-old out of mischief for the specified hour allotted.

“Remember –“

“I fancied a drive because I’m now an idiot who likes driving for no reason. You fancied a package of HobNobs because you’re a glutton who just couldn’t wait another day for one. Mother and Father will believe this story either because they believe their sons to be idiots and gluttons, or because they are themselves idiots who will believe anything they’re told.”

“Well, remember the incident with the Gibraltar Campion,” Mycroft said, shrugging.

A flash of a smirk, quickly smothered by a blank wall of irritation, and Sherlock reached for the doorhandle. Mycroft stepped out in time to see him making a beeline for the front door, rather than going around back as they’d discussed. He suppressed a growl of frustration, tossed the cigarette pack back into the car, and half-jogged in an attempt to keep up with his brother. He managed to catch the door just as Sherlock was moving to slam it closed.

“And that would have accomplished _what_ , exactly?” Mycroft hissed into Sherlock’s ear, easing the door against the jamb.

“I didn’t do it to accomplish anything,” Sherlock replied, though Mycroft noticed he, too, had modulated his voice.

They stood for just a moment in the foyer. Mycroft could feel Sherlock going through the same list of options he was: to go back out the door and go round (doubtful, given Sherlock’s stubbornness); to ease past Father’s door and make their way to the library, where they could conceivably pretend to have been in the house the whole time (risky, considering the amount of time they’d been gone); or to aim for the stairs and claim to have been wandering the house (safer bet, but still included the walk by Father’s door). Mycroft leaned backward slightly, hoping Sherlock might actually follow his lead and turn to the door. Hoping wasn’t really the right word for it. Something more akin to the fantasies of a condemned man.

Sherlock’s jaw set. He took off down the hallway with strides that, while purposeful, were nearly silent. Mycroft breathed a thankful sigh and moved to follow.

“Sherlock?”

Father’s voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of Mycroft’s neck stand up. The Holmes patriarch stood in the doorway to his office, arms folded, eyes hard. Sherlock had drawn up at the sound of his name, and now stood, still facing the hallway, shoulders bunched in anticipation.

Mycroft crossed the intervening space to stand between them. It was a wonder to him, he mused, how Siger Holmes could be merely a fraction of an inch taller than himself, yet manage to tower over both of them so completely.

“Sir?”

“Did I say your name?” Siger asked.

Mycroft put on his blandest smile. “We’ve just come back from a trip into the village. I –“

“I had an interesting phone call about 40 minutes ago,” Siger said, talking over Mycroft without raising his voice.

Just after he’d left to collect Sherlock. Mycroft cut his eyes to his brother, seeing the realization dawn. The desk sergeant hadn’t just been placing bets on his trips to the back room. He must have called back to be sure someone was en route to collect the thorn in his side. If Father hadn’t been standing there, Mycroft would have appreciated letting Sherlock realize he’d made a miscalculation.

“It seems that a certain boy claiming to be my son was causing quite a bit of disturbance at the police station. I thought they must have been mistaken. Were they?”

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed further. He was still refusing to turn to look at Siger.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

 _Just do it, Sherlock,_ Mycroft thought, willing his brother not to make matters worse. It would already take some fancy footwork to appease Father this time, he didn’t need any extra steps.

Sherlock turned to face Siger, face defiantly, imperiously set in the slightest of smirks. “No, _sir_. They were not mistaken. I was attempting to provide them with information regarding a murder, which is something that you should applaud. The disturbance came only because they refused to listen to solid evidence.”

“The mad ideas of a teenager–“

“They’re not mad ideas. They’re the only logical explanation of all the facts.”

“Facts you know from –“

“From what I observe. As I observe that you’ve made plans to return to London tonight for a meeting with Garvin – and a client, too, it would seem. You’ve told Mummy you’ll be back, but you plan to telephone later and say you’re too tired and spend the night with your mistress instead.”

Siger’s fingers closed around Sherlock’s upper arm so suddenly Mycroft didn’t have time to intercept. He’d also noticed the briefcase just inside the study door, the change to a deep blue collared shirt he wore when he needed a relaxed approach to getting a client’s consent, and the John Lobb shoes that he wore when getting the same from a woman, but he’d hoped to use the knowledge to ensure their father didn’t stop to bother with Sherlock. Leave it to his younger brother to squander the opportunity. Siger’s face was beginning to flush as he drew Sherlock into the study, ignoring his slight stumble. Sherlock, by contrast, looked as palely cool as ever. Mycroft stepped through, mentally cursing them both in all five languages at his disposal, and eased the door closed in a smooth, gentle motion. Siger looked at him, mouth ajar as if about to protest his presence. Mycroft forestalled him with another bland, apologetic smile.

“It was my fault. I let him come along with me –“

“Don’t lie to me,” Siger rapped out. “I know he sneaked out of his own accord. I’d love to know how he got to town –“

“Walked.”

“- and all the way to the police station without being stopped –“

“Why would people stop me? Is walking illegal now?”

“But I am perfectly aware that you had no hand in his departure,” Siger finished loudly, another shade of red suffusing his neck.

“Even so,” Mycroft began, forestalling Sherlock’s interruption with a narrow-eyed glare. “No harm done. The desk sergeant gave him a good lecture. He’s already restricted to the house for the duration of the week. Let’s leave the matter, shall we?”

“Oh, yes, let’s,” Sherlock spat out. “Let’s smooth things over, Mycroft, let’s be sure the status quo doesn’t change. That’s what you mean, right? Never mind if something’s actually wrong.”

“The only thing wrong here, young man, is your persistent need to flout any authority set before you.”

“No, just authority that isn’t earned.”

“I am your _father_.”

“And you spend more time thinking about the next floozy you intend to bed than thinking about the welfare of your household.”

Siger’s hand was raised, but Mycroft stepped between his father and brother in time for the blow to be checked. The smile lines felt carved onto his face as his met his father’s eyes, reminding him of the line, the bargain they’d struck nearly two years before.

“This is none of your concern, Mycroft.”

“That’s right, wouldn’t want to suspect your perfect heir of having stood against you.”

“Sherlock, shut up!” Mycroft hissed, still not breaking eye contact with his father. “Let’s all just calm down for a moment. This is a simple matter. Let’s not make it harder than it has to be.”

“I don’t have time to deal with you right now,” Siger said, two beats past a comfortable reaction time, taking a step back and adjusting his cuffs. “I have business in town tonight. But rest assured, we _will_ address this when I return.”

Mycroft allowed the knot in his gut to loosen slightly and stood aside. Not a solution, but a reprieve. He would take small blessings.

“Now, Mycroft, in my absence, I’m expecting you to be sure your brother actually stays where he’s supposed to. See if you can do a better job of it this time, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s lying, you know.”

“ _Sherlock.”_ Mycroft hissed.

“He’s tapping his smallest two fingers against his right leg. He only does that when he’s lying. In other words, he has no intention of doing anything because he knows I’m right.”

Mycroft twisted his head to look at his brother, trying to will him to be silent, but Sherlock’s entire body was bunched in an anger that had to have been building for weeks. He opened his mouth, but his eyes widened just a fraction before words came out. Mycroft reacted before thought. He stepped forward, checking his father’s forward motion. Siger’s left hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt front to push him aside, right poised to strike. Mycroft planted his feet, daring his father to try.

The raised hand connected with his cheek with a crack of flesh against flesh that drove his head to the side. The sound was nearly as unpleasant as the blow itself, Mycroft thought as he straightened up. Sherlock had gone completely still. It had been a long time since he’d seen Siger do this. Their father seemed unsure how to react to what he’d just done. Mycroft set his jaw and let the cold hatred he’d been reining in slide down his limbs and freeze the anger roiling in his chest.

“Let go of me.”

Siger’s grip slacked, but didn’t disappear. Mycroft grabbed his wrist and pried the fingers from his shirt, thrusting the hand away. Siger did not resist.

“Sherlock, step into the hall, please,” Mycroft continued in the same measured, cold tone. His brother didn’t move. “ _Now_.”

For once, Sherlock didn’t argue. Mycroft waited until the door had closed to speak, maintaining eye contact with Siger, who seemed to be shrinking before his eyes. He knew. He had to know that Mycroft would not hesitate to keep his end of the bargain.

“You’re ruined.”

“Now, Mycroft, be reasonable. Sherlock could test the patience of a saint –“

“Enjoy your evening in town. By Monday she’ll know, not only that you’re a married man, but also the names of the last three women. Garvin will receive an anonymous tip to check the firm’s financial records. If he does not follow up on it, by the end of the week he will receive another, more specific message. I’m certain you’ve covered your tracks well, but even so, there are so few people who could have embezzled quite so much without attracting attention. He’ll certainly be curious. How long before he narrows the list?”

“Now, Mycroft –“

“We had a deal. If you can’t control your temper, I won’t keep your secrets.”

“I didn’t hit Sherlock.”

He must be truly desperate to try that defense. Mycroft allowed the tiniest of smiles. “No. If you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Consider this a warning, _Father,_ I could destroy you so completely you’d be in prison by Tuesday. For Mummy’s sake, I won’t do that. Yet. Don’t make me reconsider my generosity.”

He stepped toward the door, leaving his father looking inexplicably smaller than Mycroft had ever seen. His Adam’s apple was working furiously, his face pale but sweaty.

“Mycroft –“                                                                                          

Mycroft turned on his heel and nodded to the desk. “You’ve left the brief on the Eccleston account on your desk. Garvin will be looking for you. Good evening, sir.”


	8. Saturday Evening

Sherlock had been playing his violin upwards of a quarter of an hour.

The song was pleasant enough – an original composition, Mycroft recognized from his occasionally faltering notes – but the atmosphere in the room was beginning to grate on him. Mummy was looking back and forth between them with a glow that was cloying in its rapture. Sherlock, by contrast, kept his eyes fixed on a point above Mycroft’s head, smirking so completely Mycroft was surprised it didn’t affect his playing. One would think Sherlock had been the one to win the battle with Father. Though, all things considered, he probably thought he _had_.

He would have to go back to school just after breakfast in the morning. Hopefully before Father arrived home. There was much to be done, calls to be made, wheels to be set in motion. Perhaps it would be best to hold back on a few threats. Stagger the release. Keep him on edge a while longer. This policy of leverage had worked for so long, he didn’t like the idea of losing that sway over his father. With the world crashing down around him, Siger might be inclined to do something extreme.

 _Sherlock._ The realization crept into his mind like frost, freezing all other processes. Of course. He’d take it out on Sherlock. Not physically. But he’d be damn sure his younger son ended up in some facility where he’d no longer be any concern or bother.

The violin trilled a final run that could only be described as manic, and Sherlock lifted his bow, unfixing his eyes from the wall and turning toward Mummy with an obvious expectation of applause, which was granted unreservedly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow even as he brought his hands together. Three times, no more, no less. It wasn’t one of Sherlock’s better ones.

“Your turn, Mycroft,” Mummy said, tugging on his sleeve and nodding to the piano.

Mycroft froze a recoil before it happened, positioning his arms in planned carelessness on the arms of his chair. “I haven’t been near a piano in months. Best leave the music to Sherlock and yourself.”

“It’s like riding a bike, Mycroft. And considering you spent exponentially more time at the piano than you ever did on a bike –“

“I said _no_.”

He hadn’t raised his voice. He couldn’t remember a time he’d raised his voice to Mummy. But the bite he’d allowed must have been stronger than he realized. Even Sherlock had blinked at it. Mummy was looking at him as if – well, as if a different Holmes was seated next to her. Mycroft’s hand drifted to his cheek in an attempt at a casual pose, but he found his fingers rubbing absently at the faint soreness. He had only about another two seconds before the silence would stretch into awkward questions territory. He glanced at the clock. Only 8:12, not yet late enough to make an excuse to bed.

“I’ve got a bit of studying I haven’t completed, and I’ve got a monstrous headache. Must be the weather change.”

It was flimsy. It was meant to be. It all but guaranteed that Mummy would leave him be and Sherlock would tag along to ferret out the reason for the lie. He planted a perfunctory kiss on Mummy’s cheek and left the room, ignoring the searching look she gave him. He was certain Sherlock would say nothing about the afternoon’s unpleasantness, and he had no desire to tell it. With any luck, her un-meddlesome tendency would hold. He was only about five steps down the hall when Sherlock’s violin began. Mendelssohn. His and Mummy’s favorite.

“Well, play on, Sherlock,” he muttered as he took the stairs. “You may not have the opportunity for much longer.”

He went to the library and collected his books, casting a regretful look at the analysis of hyperinflation he had no desire to complete. Besides, there was a reason he’d chosen to come here. Sherlock’s secret room – the one he’d been forbidden to enter by his little brother.

The panel slid open silently. Mycroft felt the wall to the left for the switch, mentally preparing a list of horrors he might find. Sherlock’s curiosity was so rarely satiated by books, a fact Mycroft had never truly understood.

When the bulb sputtered to life, Mycroft stared around, all planned reactions rendered moot. No creatures of any kind – alive or dead; no curiously wilted plants; he sniffed – nothing seemed to have been burnt.  He wasn’t entirely certain that those wouldn’t have been better alternatives. The right wall was covered in paper. Newspaper clippings. Photographs. A map of London with several streets highlighted. Every scrap of material printed about the Powers case.

“This is all they’ll need,” he muttered, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels.

“All they’ll need for what?”

He’d known it wouldn’t take long for Sherlock to follow. Mycroft didn’t turn to face his brother, choosing instead to keep tracing the highlighted routes on the map with his eyes. Nearest Tube stations, it seemed.

“For that oh-so-competent psychiatrist Father will get to decide you’re a danger to yourself and others.”

“What? Because I cut things out of newspapers?”

“Because you cut photos of dead people out of newspapers.”

He felt Sherlock straighten up to his full height beside him.

“It’s evidence. I’m going to find the answer.”

The well of irritation in Mycroft’s gut slopped over a bit, adding acidity to his next words. “Suppose you do? How many time do I have to tell you that the police won’t consult a child?”

“I’m not a –“

“Shut up, Sherlock.” The headache he’d faked was becoming a reality.

“Why should I?”

“Because you wouldn’t last in the kind of ward Father would put you in. It would drive you even madder than you already are, and it would all be in the name of helping you.” Mycroft snapped around and leaned down slightly so he could meet Sherlock’s eyes. “If you don’t want to be stuck in a room with no stimuli doing everything in your power to keep that mind of yours from chewing itself to pieces, learn this: shut up.”

Sherlock blinked, but didn’t back down from Mycroft’s glare. “Father wouldn’t dare.”

Mycroft allowed himself a bitter laugh. “Why? Because he backed down today?”

Sherlock froze the nod as it began, but Mycroft caught the tiny nod.

“I had leverage with him, Sherlock. Do you understand the concept of leverage? I had a deal that he controlled himself while I was away, or I let certain secrets slip. I had to use that leverage today. Now, what do you think happens when a man like our father finds his secrets being exposed? Does he reform?”

Sherlock’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Mycroft leaned even closer, their noses nearly touching.

“Does he reform?” He asked again, chewing off each word.

His younger brother’s jaw clenched. “No.”

Mycroft straightened up. “So we understand one another.”


	9. Sunday Morning

**Newton's Third Law:** For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

* * *

 

Mycroft was pleased to discover the kitchen deserted the next morning. He set about making a pot of coffee and toasting bread. There was a notepad in the drawer by the oven, he pulled it and a pen out and jotted down a few notes as he waited by the coffee pot.

_Names_

_Hotels_

_Business address_

He still hadn’t decided what he would do. He had to follow through on at least some of his threats – there was no point in having leverage if one refused to follow through with the promise of using it – but which would be most efficacious in reining Siger in was proving problematic.

_Wednesday._

He wrote the word, underlined it, and then traced the heavy line he’d drawn several more times for emphasis. Much hinged on being certain Siger was less than confident for that meeting with the headmaster. The mistress would be easy to undermine, and to be blunt, Siger would find another in a heartbeat and feel little or no regret in the process. But the firm. The money. These were things that could put fear into even the likes of Siger Holmes. So what would happen if he delayed that message? Sent it Tuesday in the afternoon. Just late enough that Siger would see it being delivered on his way out the door. The distraction would almost certainly work in Sherlock’s favor.

The coffee percolated its last, and Mycroft poured mug full almost without realizing he’d done it. He was raising it to his lips, when a voice stopped him.

“Black coffee, Mycroft?”

The coffee sloshed over his wrist and onto the paper he’d instinctively crumpled. Mummy stood in the doorway, smiling bemusedly at him, rolling up the loose sleeves of her robe.

“Yes,” he said, stupidly, because no other answer presented itself.

She took the cup from him and opened the refrigerator for the cream. “Please don’t tell me this is some sort of diet measure. Because no matter what that brother of yours says, you’ve a long way to go before you need to resort to that.”

“What’s he saying?” His voice sounded vaguely indignant, but his mind was focused on slipping the list into his pocket.

“Oh, the silly things boys say when they’re too proud to say they miss their big brothers.”

He allowed her to pour in the cream and add sugar, occupying himself with brushing the droplets of coffee from his skin.

“Or perhaps when they feel themselves free from said big brothers,” he offered.

Mummy handed him the mug back and raised her eyebrows. “We both know better than that.”

“But does Sherlock?”

“Oh, drink your coffee and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Mycroft blinked. This was a side of Mummy he hadn’t seen in years, a side he had convinced himself existed only in his more idyllic remembrances of childhood. Something of a spine seemed to be showing itself. He sipped his coffee – just the right depth of sweetness – and met Mummy’s eyes.

“Now,” she said, “When do you have to go back to school?”

“I was hoping to leave as soon as you and Sherlock were up to say goodbye.”

“Not your father?”

“He isn’t –“ Mycroft stopped himself, raising an appraising eyebrow at his mother.

“He called around 10:45, I think it was – no, nearer 11. You’d gone up to bed by then,” Mummy said complacently, pouring herself a cup of coffee and snagging the bread from the toaster. “Said he was staying in town. The phone woke you?”

Mycroft hesitated a split second before nodding. “And if he’s to be found in the house, he’s usually up by now.”

“Yes,” Mummy said, taking out a plate and presenting the toast to him on it. “I was hoping to discuss Wednesday’s meeting with him again, but perhaps this evening.”

He was aware that the only mental faculty he’d inherited from his father was his penchant for intrigue, which meant that both he and Sherlock had to have gotten their brains from the maternal branch. But Violet’s fragile health and general doormat tendencies made it easy to forget. The only times it came out where when things with Sherlock and Siger passed her threshold of comfort.

“What are you planning to say to him?” Mycroft asked, taking a seat at the table. “He seemed fairly firmly entrenched in his position yesterday.”

Violet turned from placing her own bread into the toaster, smiling in a way that reminded him very much of Sherlock. “Oh, I thought I’d let him do most of the talking. Other people speaking always seems to annoy Siger.”

If there hadn’t been so much truth in it, he wouldn’t have laughed, but the sound escaped, more a snort than anything else. Mummy smiled, but her face turned serious, her shoulders dropping into a more familiar slump.

“I won’t fight him on the evaluation. That much I’ve decided. If I do, he’ll only get more bull-headed about it.”

“Fair. You might enlist Garvin’s help.”

Mummy nodded. “For spying or persuading?”

“Both. If nothing else, Garvin could recommend which doctor to use. Father usually respects his opinion.”

“And if I know ahead of time –“ Violet broke off as the toaster popped, but made no effort to complete her sentence.

“Sherlock will need some guidance, too, if you can manage,” Mycroft said.

“Coaching, you mean?”

“Oh, the opposite, actually.”

Mummy’s face wrinkled in confusion. Mycroft took a long sip of coffee and let her ponder.

“I don’t follow.”

Mycroft leaned forward, elbows on the table, and laced his fingers. “The only time Sherlock gets in trouble is when he opens his mouth – which is most of the time. What would a psychiatrist need to make a firm diagnosis? One that would convince most people Sherlock needs a custodial sentence of some sort?’

Mummy sat down. “He’d need Sherlock to talk.”

“Precisely.”

“Mycroft, getting your brother to _not_ say something is almost as difficult as it was getting you _to_ say anything when you were his age.”

“You managed that task well enough, I think.”

“Did I?”

The honest question surprised him. Mummy had never been the most consistent parent, it was true, but he’d never had any doubt she felt she was in the right. He reached for a piece of toast and shrugged.

“I seem to be perfectly capable of speech. And all Sherlock needs is incentive to clam up.”

“Incentive?”

“Tell him it will annoy Father.”


	10. Sunday Morning continued

It was a matter of some small amusement to him that Sherlock could be as nearly silent as it was humanly possible to be, yet he always knew when his brother entered the room. Something in the air shifted, a certain pulse of energy that had nothing to do with any physical sense he could identify. Not that he would ever give Sherlock the satisfaction of informing him of this fact. The boy already had enough proof that the world revolved around him.

“I expected you to have gone by now.”

Mycroft slid his last text book neatly into his bag and didn’t turn around. “Five minutes.”

“Are you sure it won’t be 4 and three quarters minutes?” The smirk was audible.

“Very well, five minutes with a thirty second margin for error.”

A heavy huff that could have been a laugh or an irritated sigh. Mycroft took his time zipping the bag. Goodbyes had never gone well between them, but in the last 18 months they’d become absolutely toxic. He didn’t anticipate this one breaking the pattern, especially considering what he’d done. He felt Sherlock meander into the room. His eyes slid to the left to see Sherlock lounge against his wardrobe. He was still in his pyjamas and going by the height of his curls hadn’t bothered to do much in the way of personal grooming since he’d awoken. He was also very clearly struggling to find words for something.

“He probably won’t be back till midafternoon. That’s his usual pattern.”

“All the more reason not to wait around for him.”

Mycroft turned to face his brother, giving the slightest of lifts to his shoulders by way of a question. Sherlock rolled his own shoulder in response. They stood for several long moments in silence, before Sherlock opened his mouth again, his voice strained and near resentful in its hesitance.

“About yesterday –“

“There is absolutely nothing about yesterday that I care to discuss.”

“You might let me finish a sentence now and again.”

“Which serves you in such good stead most of the time.”

“Will you shut up for thirty seconds and listen to me?”

“No.”

Sherlock blinked at that. Mycroft took a step closer, crossing his arms.

“What do you want to say, Sherlock? Thank you? You’re sorry? Father was out of line? What good will any of those statements be to me? You’re welcome. I accept your apology – mainly because I don’t expect you to actually give one. Of course Father was out of line, but he won’t be for much longer. Don’t waste time on banalities, brother mine.”

“Do you honestly not care that –“

“I do not. What use would caring about it be? Where’s the advantage in caring about things I can’t change? It’s time you learned this.”

Sherlock’s chin jutted upwards at that. He closed the gap between them in two long strides, nostrils flaring. “Sometimes they can be changed.”

Mycroft permitted himself an unkind chuckle. There were ways in which Sherlock was still so very young. But Sherlock had frozen. Not because he laughed. There was a quizzical look in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer to Mycroft, inhaling deeply again. It had taken him less time than Mycroft had predicted.

“Smoke. But no tobacco scent,” Sherlock said.

“Which suggests?” Mycroft prompted before he could stop himself.

“You were incinerating something. But that doesn’t make any sense.”

He’d meant Sherlock to find out after he’d left. But the habit of years didn’t erase itself so easily. “Balance of probabilities, Sherlock. What would I be incinerating in this house?”

He could almost see Sherlock sifting through the house room by room. It took approximately three seconds for his eyes to widen. Mycroft braced himself for the inevitable explosion, but Sherlock turned and dashed from the room in a swirl of black dressing gown. Mycroft picked up his bag and followed. He met Mummy in the hallway, where she was staring after his brother. Her eyes were pale with accusation.

“Did you tell him?”

“He’s a reasonably clever boy, Mother. He figured it out.”

“With some help from you.”

The same story, then, regardless of their camaraderie before. Somehow, Mycroft would always be indirectly responsible for Sherlock’s actions. He drew himself up to attention. “Hardly.”

Something in his voice drew her attention from the open library door. She turned toward him, eyebrows crinkled in what looked like apology. But before she could get the words out, Sherlock was tearing back through the door.

“What have you done with it all?”

“Now, Sherlock –“ Mummy began, reaching for him as he stormed toward Mycroft.

Sherlock easily dodged her hand, but stopped about two paces from his brother, shoulders jumping with his breaths. Mycroft found himself wondering if Sherlock realized how much easier he was making it to feel less than remorseful.

“With what all?”

“You know.”

“Sherlock, calm down,” Mumy tried again. “It’s ju-“

“I saw no point in letting you continue with this silly obsession,” Mycroft interrupted. He did not, as he wished to, cut a silencing glance at his mother. This would only work if Sherlock felt he still had one ally in the house. “I did you a favor. I got rid of the stimulus.”

There was a moment in which Sherlock was utterly still. His face was a mural of fury and something Mycroft was becoming all too familiar with – betrayal. Then he blinked and his eyes deadened.

“I can’t change it.”

“Correct.”

Mummy was staring at them in confusion, but Mycroft felt a glimmer of hope. It was possible, just possible, that Sherlock had listened before.

“And I can’t change you.”

Mycroft steadied himself, not allowing the words to a resting place within. “Correct.”

Sherlock gave one small nod and stepped back. Mycroft pursed his lips to keep back – well, something. He had no idea what he would say, or should say. If nothing else, he supposed he should be pleased that Sherlock finally seemed to be taking his advice. It would make the process much smoother, overall. It fit the plan. He just wished it didn’t make him feel like his father.

“Well, then, I’d best be off,” Mycroft said, hefting his bag slightly and turning toward the door.

Mummy trotted forward. “Mycroft, don’t you think we should –“

“Say goodbye? Yes, of course.” Mycroft put the bag on the floor and gave her a perfunctory hug. When they drew apart, he gave cut his eyes to Sherlock and then back to her, setting his jaw. She gave a tremulous nod. Stick to the plan. This was for Sherlock’s own good.

“See you at Christmas, then, if not before.” Mummy said.

“Yes, Christmas.”

 

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all my readers! I hope you've had half as much fun reading this as I have had writing it.


End file.
